


Spared

by tveckling



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Body Horror, Canon-Typical Violence, Horror, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Minor Character Death, Monsters, Psychological Horror, Violence, ship is just referenced
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 00:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17193464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tveckling/pseuds/tveckling
Summary: Every now and then he feels his shoulders push into something—sometimes soft, sometimes hard—or something brush against the sides of his face. He tried to figure out what that was, once, reached out with his hand to take a sample to analyze.The thing took his hand, and Connor understands the warning. He's not meant to understand what's happening, or what he's surrounded by. He's not allowed to stand still and analyze and think.





	Spared

Connor wants to cry at the sound of the dragging noise, wants to hiss, wants to curl up and stop moving, but he knows he can't. He would tear off the foot, since it's only hanging onto his body by a few wires, but he can't stop moving. The thing might be there, might be waiting for him to pause, to take a pause, to try and calm himself down—and choose that moment to attack him. That's what it did the last time, when it tore out his tongue. A part of him can't help feeling like it was a mercy; without a tongue, he can't scream his pain or cry out in terror or call for help, which means he can't summon any more helpless people to be slaughtered. Without a tongue, he has no choice but to remain alone. He almost wants to thank it.

The thing is there somewhere, he knows logically it is. It must be. Watching him limp around, dragging his damaged body with him, enjoying the one-sided playtime. He tried to fight back, in the beginning. He'd taken a gun from one of the red covered bodies, when he first entered the building, and he'd moved forward slowly, carefully, keeping his sharp eyes on every movement. Humans wouldn't have seen it. Normal androids wouldn't have seen it. But Connor, with every part of his body advanced far beyond any regular android, had seen it. He's even sure he managed to damage it. That must be why it tore out his eyes first.

Now he's enveloped in darkness, with nothing to steer him in the right direction. The fights with the thing have left him disoriented, made him lose track of where in the building he is, and without a chance to breathe and focus on his GPS he won't be able to reposition himself. He wonders if the thing knows that, and that's why it won't let him rest. He curses it, even as he continues on, slowly, holding the remainder of his right arm tight against his chest to keep it from being in the way. Every now and then he feels his shoulders push into something—sometimes soft, sometimes hard—or something brush against the sides of his face. He tried to figure out what that was, once, reached out with his hand to take a sample to analyze.

The thing took his hand, and Connor understands the warning. He's not meant to understand what's happening, or what he's surrounded by. He's not allowed to stand still and analyze and think.

Something gives under his shoe, and Connor can't stop his body as it falls forward, just barely manages to turn so he lands as securely as possible. The first thing he realizes is that he landed on something, something soft. The second is that his hand, where he puts it on the floor to push himself up to his knees, touches something wet and almost sticky. He gets many more realizations after that, from the combination of his first realizations, to the smell that follows, to his knowledge so far of the situation—but he quickly dismisses each and every one of them. He has no time to waste on this, has no capacity to think about what he tripped on. 

But he can’t move on quite yet. He knows many of the people who are supposed to be in the building. He knows Jericho had many of its people here. And, though he can’t see, one face stands out in his mind, making his body ache and his hand shake as he lightly moves it over the softness— _ the body _ . He can’t see, so it’s hard to figure out which direction he needs to move his hand, and he can’t know how long he will be allowed to just lie there. Every moment that passes makes his thirium pump beat harder, makes his mind scream at him to keep moving, to care about himself, that he can’t do anything if he’s  _ dead _ —that voice sounds suspiciously like Hank’s, and Connor thinks a quick apology to his partner for ignoring his wisdom. But he can’t move on, not yet, not until he  _ knows _ for sure.

There’s an arm. He follows it, feels the soft touch of skin that doesn’t end in fingers, so it must be the neck, and he keeps on tracing it, feels the shape of an ear, and there’s running more thirium down his face now but he doesn’t care, he’s so scared, it can’t be, please, don’t let it be-

He feels hair, soft and long, and connected to the body, and suddenly he can breathe again. It’s not. Thank rA9, it’s not. Maybe his worst fears will be found somewhere else, but for now Connor can hope, can delude himself into baseless, illogical hope.

There’s a rumble, somewhere to his right, and Connor swallows heavily, putting his body into motion as he pushes his hand against the floor. But he’s been too slow, been unmoving for too long, and something tears into him. He feels something sharp pierce his hand, feels something soft push against his face, feels something big and ever-changing wrap around his body as he’s lifted into the air and slammed back down into the floor. His system screams about thirium losses, from several places, and Connor opens his mouth reflexively to scream, though nothing but broken static fills the air. His hand is fire, his muscles twitching around the—claw?—piercing the appendage, his fingers uselessly spasming. Something, something burning, something sharp, touches his throat, and his head is already held still, so he can do nothing as he feels the sides of his neck being cut open. The static rises in volume, grows almost painful to listen to, and the rumble grows louder as well, and Connor feels as something thin reaches into his throat from both sides, curling around every wire and artificial muscle and more that it finds, until it reaches the voice box—and when that is crushed, the static immediately cuts out, and only the rumble is heard. 

The thing’s—fingers? Tentacles?—leaves his throat, leaves Connor gasping and trying to scream, with thirium tears running from empty eye sockets, his body fighting to get air into his lungs, as though he actually needs it. His hand keeps twitching, still pinned to the floor, and he can’t think, can’t see anything, can’t feel anything but the burning, can’t hear anything but the rumbling, can’t do anything, can’t can’t can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t-

Why isn’t he dead? He remembers the bodies at the entrance, remembers that they had far fewer injuries than he. The thing had simply killed them, hadn’t wasted time playing with them and slowly picking them apart, as it does with Connor. It lies on him, rumbling against him, covering him and choking him, suffocating him, but he doesn’t die. He’s losing thirium, but not at an alarming rate. If it continues like this, the thing can keep him alive for several more hours, while Connor- 

Will he die? Is he going to die? He doesn’t want to die. He wants to die. He’s scared. Hank’s face is in his mind, and he doesn’t want to die. Markus’ face is in his mind, and he  _ doesn’t want to die _ .

The thing moves, disappearing from him completely in just a moment, tearing itself out of his body with a force that makes Connor wordlessly cry as he holds his shaking hand against his chest, curling up on his side, feeling the thirium pool beneath him. He needs to move. He wants to live. He needs to survive. He needs to find Markus. He can’t stay still.

The rumbling surrounds him. He shakes, his whole body shakes, but he gets to his knees, then his feet. He sways, his body nothing but a series of warnings screaming at him. Then he limps forward.


End file.
